


For Want of a Sandwich

by pomegrenadier



Series: Structural Integrity [9]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, cross-faction friendship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-21 08:46:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6045298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrenadier/pseuds/pomegrenadier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In theory, Nar Shaddaa is a neutral world. In practice, it's a war zone. But the battle lines aren't always drawn between Republic and Empire, and allies can be found in the strangest places. Including, as it happens, bombed-out sandwich shops.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In case it wasn't clear by now, I am a sucker for cross-faction friendships :). Set immediately following the ends of the Knight and Warrior class quest lines on Nar Shaddaa.

**o.O.o**

The Power Guard project has been shut down, Agent Galen's back with the SIS, Lord Sadic is extremely dead, and Darth Angral has yet another reason to be pissed at her. All in all, it's been a productive day.

Zaarah feels justified in taking a few hours to decompress. Meditation is fine, but sometimes, she's discovered, a walk through a city center is more effective. The sheer force of _life_ boiling up from the depths of Nar Shaddaa—chaotic, desperate, blazing life—drowns out the memories of Galen's screams and the choking smell of burned meat and ozone hanging over the lab.

_. . . Yeah, don't think about that._ Zaarah lets the waves of other people's emotions wash it away. She holds herself steady in the maelstrom, surrounded by it but not swept away, and wanders the Promenade without any particular destination in mind.

She said she'd meet Kira in a few hours' time, but until then, she's at loose ends. Might as well see the sights. So far, she's chatted with a few vendors, picked up some trinkets she thinks Kira and T7 might like, and spent more time than she probably should have staring at the statue in Lucent Square. It was just . . . difficult _not_ to stare at the fifty-foot-tall aurodium-plated Hutt. Which is probably the point of it being so big. And golden. And . . . big.

Zaarah spots a sign for the Slippery Slopes, a bar just off the Square. She can probably camp in there for a while and people-watch, hopefully without anyone bothering her. The Jedi robes tend to be kind of off-putting, which for once is a good thing. Angling towards the bar, she nearly runs into a courier droid on its delivery rounds, but jinks sideways at the last second, reflexively apologizing. It ignores her. Okay, then. No social reciprocity program, apparently.

She has to stop and brace herself a little in the doorway of the bar as the music, the crowd noise, and another wave of _life_ all crash over her. Filtering out enough of it to function takes a minute—she's not usually this clumsy, hasn't been since she was just an initiate—but once she's got her balance back, she marches up to the bar, takes a seat, and orders a drink, more for appearance's sake than because she likes the taste.

She's only a few sips into it when a red-bearded man in Republic uniform drops onto a stool a couple of seats down from her. He stares blankly at the bartop for a minute or two, the Force twitchy and uneasy around him. Then he heaves a sigh and waves over the bartender droid. It glides closer, photoreceptors glowing cheerful yellow. "What'll it be, honey?" it says, relentlessly perky.

"Whatever's strongest. And keep 'em coming," the soldier mumbles.

"Okey dokey!" says the droid.

The soldier rubs at his temples, rests his elbows on the bar, and sighs again. Zaarah clears her throat. "Excuse me, but I can't help but notice you seem a little shaken," she says.

"Huh? Oh—Master Jedi. Sorry, sir. It's been a weird day, that's all."

"Weird, how? Everything okay?"

The officer shakes his head. "I don't know, sir. I really don't know. Me and my boys were down at Outpost Shylon, defending it from the Imps. It was going bad, the Imps had us cornered, when this Sith comes out of _nowhere_ and just . . . smashes through them. The Imperials, I mean."

Zaarah frowns. "Why would a Sith kill fellow Imperials?"

"Some kind of power struggle, I guess. Anyway, this guy saves our hides, then asks for our help. I figure it's better to get things over with and learn what the hell he wants sooner rather than later, so I say yes . . . and two hours later I get a call to come in and help him take down _another_ Sith and his goons."

"Is your squad all right?" asks Zaarah.

"Yeah. No casualties. Not a one. Whole lotta questions, though."

Strange. Zaarah hopes this isn't the prelude to something horrible, but since when has she ever been that lucky?

****

**o.O.o**

Rathari neutralized, Naughlan and his Republic commandos slightly flabbergasted but all alive and well, Baras none the wiser—Evren couldn't have hoped for a better outcome. He regrets Agent Dellocon's death; the man was a loyal operative, and he deserved better. But his end was swift, even merciful by Sith standards. Certainly by Baras's.

_You're rationalizing_ , the little voice at the back of Evren's mind whispers. But what else could he have done with Quinn watching, his master's faithful eyes and ears? Try to _save_ Dellocon from Rathari?

He tries to focus on the positives. Vette and Quinn are unharmed. He might have an ally on the other side, if circumstances should demand it. Baras is pleased enough to grant a few days' respite from their hunt for Nomen Karr's mysterious Padawan.

Also, this is a really excellent sandwich.

"No, look—the sharper, brighter notes of the mustard and pickled fruit add so much _dimension_ to the classic meat and cheese combination, to say nothing of the fact that it's all toasted together," he explains, waving the sandwich in question for emphasis. "It's anything but a—how did you put it, Quinn? 'A clumsy, plebeian assemblage of conflicting flavors'?"

Quinn, though a fine officer, clearly does not appreciate the culinary genius of Korta's Cafe, because his only reaction is to nod and say, quite blandly, "Indeed, my lord."

Evren sighs. "Never mind." He takes another bite.

"Come on, _Captain_ ," Vette cajoles from the other side of their cramped table, "live a little! Enjoy the ambience! This here is a taste of Nar Shaddaa, and you're missing out."

"I confess, I find it difficult to trust anything that passed through the hands of a Hutt," Quinn says.

"Who, Korta? There's a reason she's stayed open for the past thirty years in one of the nastiest real estate markets on the planet," Vette says, "and that reason is the fact that she's damn good at what she does."

"You know the proprietor?" Evren says. If there's a chance he might be able to beg an audience, perhaps discover where she gets these pickles . . .

Vette sits back, takes a sip of her drink, and grins around the straw. "Sure do. The old gang used to hang around here between jobs. She kinda had a soft spot for us. Made sure we didn't starve."

"An altruistic Hutt," Quinn mutters. "How novel."

"A speciesist Imperial," Vette shoots back. "How cute."

Evren frowns, distracted. Something's . . . off. The Force is still and taut as a wire about to snap. He half-turns to glance over the rest of the cafe. It looks safe enough. Patrons at their tables, servers on their rounds, a courier droid just entering.

"It is a demonstrable fact that a disproportionate number of Hutts are involved in criminal activi—"

The front of Korta's Cafe explodes.

****

**o.O.o**

__

_tbc_


	2. Chapter 2

****

**o.O.o**

Zaarah is on her feet, hand dropping to her lightsaber, a heartbeat before the ground starts shaking. The Force jangles with sudden, overwhelming dread. Around her, partygoers and tourists and locals barely register the shift, but—

The lights flicker. The music stutters. The bar goes dark.

Dead silence for a moment. Then the screaming starts.

Zaarah vaults onto the bar and ignites her lightsaber, raising it high. The blue glow turns everything ghostly, but at least there's enough light to see by. Reflections glitter in the eyes of the crowd as many of them instinctively turn to face her. "Remain calm, everyone," she yells, amplifying her voice with the Force. "It's going to be all right . . ."

Blasterfire from the entrance corridor. More screaming, this time in terror and pain. Zaarah can't make out what's happening by sight; all she can see is flashes of color, shadows falling with dull meaty _thuds_. She can _feel_ their lives burning out, though, and that's—

She snarls, wordless, and leaps across the intervening space, over patrons and tables alike, landing hard in the rapidly-clearing space between entrance and the bulk of the crowd. "Everybody to the back entrance!" she shouts. "Go!"

The attackers open fire on her. Good. She can take it, and every shot directed at her is a shot directed away from people without the benefit of Jedi training. She deflects them all with ease, lightsaber whirling around her in the smooth, grounded motions of Soresu to send killing bolts splashing harmlessly into the walls and floor—or angling them back where they came from. She can sense the shooters now, distinct from the rest of the people nearby, itching and buzzing with hostility as if they're filled with swarming flies.

Zaarah focuses, the Force pooling cold and bright in her limbs and chest. It floods her senses, guides her motions quicker than thought in an unstoppable advance against the hail of blasterfire. If she can hold them here at the bottlenecked entrance, stop them from getting past her, the other bar patrons will have a much better chance of escaping.

A twitch of awareness—two attackers, trying to creep along the wall while she's busy defending against the main group. Zaarah scowls and shifts her stance, continues deflecting with her lightsaber one-handed as she raises the other and _pushes_. The strays yelp as they're shoved off their feet and into the wall, hard enough to crack bone. Zaarah shifts again. She reaches out for a nearby chair and throws it in the general direction of the ongoing barrage. A few pained grunts and a sudden lightening of the onslaught signal success—and that's all she needs.

She puts on a burst of speed that brings her within striking distance of the nearest shooter. Before they can react, she cuts them down and rounds on her next target.

****

**o.O.o**

Evren's skull is ringing. His ears, too, but it's the rest of his head that's giving him pause, because he's fairly certain skulls aren't supposed to feel like the inside of a bell that's just been kicked by an angry yozusk.

The air smells like charred meat, scorched metal, burned hair.

Evren opens his eyes. He pushes himself up onto elbows and knees; then, when that elicits nothing but faint aches from a few bruises, drags himself upright.

The cafe has been reduced to wreckage. Overturned furniture, half-melted plastic trays. He can see the remains of his sandwich still smoldering at his feet. The table rests on its side, its aluminium surface warped by the force of the blast. He vaguely remembers instinctively wrenching it up between him, Vette, Quinn, and the blast. And then there are the bodies. The occupants of the three booths closest to the entrance are unrecognizable.

Stark terror pierces the blank fog in his mind.

"Vette!" he calls out, staggering over the mangled remains of a serving droid. "Vette! Quinn!"

"Wh—what . . .?"

Evren chokes out a laugh of relief as a familiar presence sparks through the miasma smothering his senses. He stumbles forward, then drops to his knees beside her with a stifled grunt. Vette is caught under the smoking, lifeless body of one of the other diners—he hauls the corpse off her as she starts to struggle against its weight. "Shit, _fuck_ , what the fuck—Ev!"

"Are you all right?" he says. It takes far more effort than it should to keep his voice even.

Vette scrabbles away from the body, gasping as she puts weight on her left arm. She raises it, swallows hard. The sleeve of her jacket is charcoal-stiff, the flesh beneath it burned raw. Apparently the dead diner shielded her from the worst of the blast, but not all of it. "Oh. _Ow._ "

"Here," he says, handing over the emergency medkit he keeps on his belt.

Vette accepts them with a nod of thanks. "Where's Quinn?"

Evren casts around, then lets out a breath. He crawls over to Quinn and notes the blood oozing from the Imperial's scalp. "Hells. Quinn?"

His eyes flutter open, and he frowns up at Evren. "My lord . . ." He sits up, blinking, and then visibly takes a moment to process the sudden change of scenery. "Oh."

Evren grimaces. "Quite. How are you feeling?" he asks, gesturing to his own head.

Quinn mirrors the motion and winces slightly as his fingertips brush the wound. "I'll be fit to fight, my lord, if you'll grant me a moment to get my bearings," he says.

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that."

Vette tosses Quinn one of the vials of disinfectant and a shot of kolto. "Knock yourself out, Captain."

"Actually, please stay conscious," Evren says. "There are other survivors—we need to get them out of here." He stands, stretching out his senses and then focusing on the sparks of living minds scattered around the cafe. A few of the staff are already emerging from behind the counter and in the kitchen, stunned and shaking—a Rodian woman, a pair of humans. Evren picks his way towards the nearest flickering life, an indistinct figure half-buried by the remains of a mangled table and part of the ceiling. "You—help me with this!" he says, waving the three of them over.

Before they can react, though, the sound of distant blasterfire drifts through the gaping wound in the front of the dining area. Evren stills. Secondhand panic seethes through the Force. "Oh _hells_."

"My lord, I suggest we vacate the area as quickly as possible," Quinn says, now on his feet.

"There are hundreds of people in the plaza!" Vette protests. "We can't just leave them to die!"

"Local authorities can handle—"

Another explosion, further off this time. Another bloom of fire and swell of screams.

" _Local authorities_ are the criminal syndicates. Chances are that they're the ones responsible for this," Evren says.

"As you say, my lord. However, it is imperative that we proceed to Tatooine with all haste. We cannot allow minor concerns to—"

"Quinn?" Vette says sweetly. " _Shut up._ "

"Can you take care of the wounded in here?" says Evren, turning to her.

"You bet. Hey, c'mon, it's okay," Vette says, rounding on the hesitating staff. "He's gonna make sure we don't get shot to pieces, we're gonna make sure nobody bleeds out in here."

Evren glances at Quinn as the others break their frightened stillness and move to join Vette in extricating the fallen patron. The captain meets his eyes briefly, then bows. "My lord," he murmurs, too quiet to discern his tone, his emotions too shuttered to read.

A problem for another time. Evren darts out of the cafe and into the chaos of Lucent Square.

****

**o.O.o**

__

_tbc_


End file.
